


For We Cannot Be But Ourselves, Cold And Loving

by Zayrastriel



Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, M/M, implicit very minor character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-09
Updated: 2012-07-09
Packaged: 2017-11-09 12:24:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/455427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zayrastriel/pseuds/Zayrastriel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack vaguely supposes that this might be a whole new level of coldness, even for him.  But anything to do with the Doctor is enough, and Canton agreed.  He did.<br/>(Never mind that Jack knows Canton will hate himself, hate Jack, till the day he dies.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	For We Cannot Be But Ourselves, Cold And Loving

**Author's Note:**

> Why is Canton so awesome, and why do I have to make all my characters suffer?

Jack tracks him down about a week after he hears of him, a week spent cursing the fact that, once again, he’s too late (and by such a tiny margin too, because he was _in Washington at the time_ ).  But the past half a century or more has taught him to deal with the constant failures; to deal and accept and keep fucking _trying_ , because one of these days the Doctor isn’t going to be fast enough.

One of these days, maybe he’ll be fixed.

Today, however, he’s standing unnoticed behind a man, staring with him at a gravestone.  It’s new, Jack can tell by the light, barely-there layer of the same snow that’s coating the rest of the cemetery, nearly a yard thick.  Jack hasn’t bothered to wear a hood, nor has the mourner before him, and so light flecks of frozen water cover them both, a shroud for the living.

“Friend of yours?” he asks, gesturing to the grave though there’s no way his movement could be seen.

The man’s fingers twitch, almost as though they’re on the verge of stretching out to some sort of concealed weapon.  But then they settle again, and the shorter man turns slightly (his whole body, not just his neck) to look at Jack.

“In a manner of speaking,” the man – Canton Everett Delaware III, and who in the name of time and space would name _one_ child that, let alone _three_? – says steadily.  He’s every inch the FBI operative, from the control in his voice to the imposing aura, compounded by an immaculate suit.  “And I don’t mean to be rude, but…who the hell are you?”

Jack smiles dazzlingly (he should know, he used to practice in the mirror for hours back at the Academy in the 51st century – home.)  “Captain Jack Harkness,” and he would salute, but Delaware’s never shown any respect for authority or titles – Torchwood pinched the tape of that conversation between Delaware and Nixon, and Jack has it in his pocket right now because it told him many things about this man, who the Doctor trusted.

(Including that Delaware is both fair game and completely off-limits, because Jack respects mourning.)

So instead, he extends his hand, adding another smile, even more brilliant than the first, when Delaware looks at it, and then him, with wariness and distrust ( _smart_ ) on his face.

“Canton Delaware,” Delaware replies slowly, releasing Jack’s hand as soon as he can.  “Now, normally I’d ask you what you want but I’m sort of occupied right now,” a hand waves vaguely in the direction of the gravestone, “so if you wouldn’t mind…”

He should leave Delaware alone, he knows.  He doesn’t know why he even bothered coming right now, when the trail’s nothing but a dead end.  But it’s been twenty years since Jack has managed to find anyone who’s talked to the Doctor, _any_ Doctor, and he’s desperate.

“I’m a friend of the Doctor,” he blurts out.

Delaware’s eyes flicker slightly – surprise, perhaps – but it goes away in an instant.  “Really,” he asks (says, that’s not really a question the way Delaware words it.)

Jack nods, maybe a bit too enthusiastically, and for a moment, Delaware’s dark eyes shutter before opening again, wide and expressionless.  “Next time you see him, tell him Nixon owes me a marriage.”  There’s a trace of bitterness in his tone, but Jack’s not sure where it’s directed. 

Delaware glances again at the grave, closes his eyes for a long, silent instant, and Jack’s about to leave him to it (he’s never been good at the emotional scenes, couldn’t die in the year 200 000 without that parting shot as he embraced death) when he thinks _to hell with it_.  Delaware sounds, at least from his file, like Jack; disobedient and apathetic, talented but wasted till the Doctor came along.

“Let me buy you a drink,” he offers, laying a hand on Delaware’s arm, because at the very least he could use a new alien story.

 

~

 

In between sips of whiskey, Delaware tells him about the Silence (and Jack has heard stupid species names, has said the word Raxacoricofallapatorius and that _is a mouthful_ , but he thinks this might just top the list).  Halfway through his second cup of coffee, Jack’s finally talking about that time in the Blitz (the first time around, anyway) when the Doctor changed his everything (not just his life but his fucking _soul_ , and isn’t that ~~romantic~~ melodramatic?) to a disbelieving Canton – _don’t call me Delaware, you sound like my old boss back at the FBI_.

He waits till Canton’s words slow noticeably (impressively, it takes him some ten or so drinks over four hours) before he finally asks.

“When did he die?”

“Four days ago.”  A tequila shot this time; Canton barely reacts to the taste, barely pauses mid-sentence.  “Sharpshooter, but you already knew that.”

He acknowledges that for the truth it is with a brief nod.  “FBI?”

The other man shrugs.  “Could be.  Doesn’t matter, now.”

“Do you blame him?”  There’s no question or doubt as to who Jack’s referring to, because it’s not a coincidence that the Doctor left about five days before Canton’s lover got a bullet to the head.

The Doctor does that, leaves messes behind without knowing.  He saves countries, saves worlds, and then leaves before realising that he’s destroyed a life with a snap of his fingers.

“Do you?” Canton fires back, but Jack doesn’t bother to respond.

It’s impossible to blame the Doctor, and equally impossible not to; a sort of love-hate relationship with thoughts and guilt.

“Do you miss him?” he asks instead, _your partner, your lover, the one who you left your job for, the one who died because of you when you’d have died for him_.

Canton takes a swig of whiskey, barely avoiding spilling liquid onto his crisp white shirt. 

“Every fucking minute.”

Jack considers this, and he might not be able to get drunk on orange juice but maybe he’s drunk on that intoxicating feeling of knowing that the Doctor’s out there, that he’s not searching in a vacuum for a nameless, faceless man who comes and goes without a footprint.  “Wanna fuck?”

The other man bares his teeth in a grin, painful and raw and _this_ is what Jack does.

“Hell yes.”


End file.
